


Wearing Her Colors

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, The Like
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Wearing Her Colors

It's a photoshoot thing, at first, and Annie assumes it's just Z being bossy.

"Wear this one," she says, tossing a garment bag at Annie. "It'll look better on you than on me."

Annie catches it and peers inside, then raises an eyebrow at Z. "It's black and white," she says patiently. "Everything we wear is black and white, for that exact reason."

"So that it will look better on you?"

"So that it will look good on any of us."

Z waves her hands in the air and grabs another bag. "Whatever, just wear it, it'll look good."

The outfit does look good on Annie. She wouldn't necessarily say _better_ , but good. And Z smiles when she sees Annie wearing it, proud and satisfied and something else, something darkly playful behind her eyeliner and lipstick, something that makes Annie's pulse jump under her skin.

The next photo shoot, nothing, but Annie doesn't wonder if she imagined it. She doesn't doubt. She waits, patiently, and sure enough, at their next show Z tosses her the dress she wore at the shoot. "Wear that tonight," Z says, finger-combing her bangs off to the side. "It'll look better behind the keyboard than behind the mic."

"That doesn't make any sense," Annie tells her, but she tugs off her street clothes and pulls the dress over her head, letting it slide over her hips like a living thing crawling its way down.

Z smiles that same smile, only more so.

Z gets a little bolder after that, choosing Annie's outfits even if they weren't her own first. She treats Annie like a doll, laying out makeup and hair accessories for her, too. Laena and Tennessee never say anything, just watch with little smiles that Annie can't read as easily as she reads Z's.

Z's is the one that matters, anyway.

Z is smiling that smile as wide as the Cheshire cat their last night in Europe, when Annie opens the hotel-room door to her knocking. "What?" Annie asks with as much patience as she can manage. She's not dressed, in her slip and stockings and shoes, her hair pinned up off her face and her eyes half-done. "Z, I'm not ready yet, what...oh."

Z strikes a pose, leaning on her elbow against the doorframe. "My fair Miss Monroe, would you do me the honor?"

Annie can't think of anything to say for a good long minute, too busy looking Z up and down. She's wearing two-thirds of a three-piece suit, perfectly tailored pants and vest in charcoal-gray with the thinnest lavender pinstripe, with a crisp white shirt and a violet tie that Annie knows without asking Z tied herself. Her hair is combed straight back and held off her face with cream like the heartthrob from a black-and-white movie, if heartthrobs wore half an inch of eyeliner and lipstick in a shade that isn't even officially released yet.

"Annie," Z prompts sternly, and Annie jerks back to let her in.

"You could have told me," she manages to say once they're inside and the door is closed again. "I didn't realize we were doing a theme."

"Where's the fun in that?" Z crosses to the closet and pages through the garment bags, rising up on her toes a little. Annie can see she's wearing boots, black leather lace-ups with detailing rising up the shaft from the ankles, the same kind of anachronistic, playful mix of era and detail as the rest of her outfit.

"Ah-ha! I was afraid someone else snatched it up." Z holds up a bag triumphantly. "I saw this and knew you had to have it. Just had to. No slip for this one, missy, take it off." Annie complies, raising an eyebrow, but before she can say a thing Z is taking the dress from its hanger and going on again. "Isn't it just too cute? It's like a flapper bodyswapped with Lady Gaga. And crashed into a grape jelly factory. Come on, come on, put it on and I'll finish your makeup and we can go. We don't want to be late."

Annie's heart is darting around in her chest again as Z's hands move over her, adjusting the dress just the way she wants it and then moving on, brisk and businesslike, to the important work of makeup and hair. If she was Z's doll before, now she's her canvas.

"That's hot," Z says when she turns Annie to face the mirror and see her finished product. They're light, throwaway words, but Z's voice isn't either of those things, not at all. It's rough, and a little husky, and as she says it the backs of her fingers slide down Annie's side to rest against her hip. It's a possessive gesture, one that matches the smile that's on Z's face again. That's the thing Annie's been seeing but not naming; Z's smile is dark and playful and _claiming_ , and Annie doesn't mind at all.

"Let's go," Z says, linking her arm through Annie's. "We haven't got all night. Well, we do, but I want to go now."

And they're gone, down the fire stairs because Z's too impatient to wait for the elevator, out through the lobby and into the street and up one block and down another to the club of the night, the party of the hour, the event of the season. Whatever it is, Annie's lost track, and it's impossible to pin down when the lights are bright and the music is loud and the drinks are flowing free and Z is...

Z is _there_ , standing out against the crowd of tiny dresses and tight jeans in her menswear from another era. Z is dancing and drinking and laughing, her hair--her honest to god _Brylcreemed_ hair, Annie hears her telling someone, and only Z would do that, only Z would _care_ to do it--bright platinum under the lights and her hands sliding against Annie's arms and hips and thighs, up under the hem of the slinky sequined flapper dress, until Annie closes her eyes against the glow of the dancefloor.

"Let's go back," Z whispers in her ear, just as low and hot as before, and it's not a question, it's not a request, and Annie still has Z all over her, she's still wearing Z's colors, so she goes.

In the room, Z walks her backward to the bed and pushes her down before kissing her. Annie tastes her lipstick and the echo of the vodka she was drinking at the bar, overlaid on the heat of Z's mouth and Z's tongue. And Z's hands, even hotter, gliding up Annie's thighs and then down again, raking her skirt to her hips and her panties to her knees.

"Annie," Z says, her voice not quite singsong, breathless and quick and hot. She kisses Annie again, catching her lower lip with her teeth just enough to sting. "I..."

"Yeah." Annie nods, twisting her legs to shake the panties free, so she can get her legs around Z and pull her closer. Z's still kissing her, deeper now, one hand moving to tug the straps of the dress off Annie's shoulders and bare her chest while the other slides down between her legs, finding the slick heat at her center and tracing it over the hot, sensitized skin until she gasps. "Z, yes, _please_ \--"

And now she isn't Z's doll or her canvas, she's her instrument, and Z plays her out until Annie's thighs shake and her mouth is swollen and hot. Z eases away from her and Annie catches her wrists before she can go too far. "Now you," she says, knowing she's splayed out and sprawled and messy with her dress tangled around her torso, bare from her waist down and her breasts up. "Come on, Z."

Because Z is Z, she puts on a show, stepping back and unbuttoning her vest and then her shirt in a slow, precise fashion, unknotting the tie and draping it over the chair-back, unlacing her boots completely before she takes them off and sinks down two inches to her real height standing on the floor. Socks and trousers, her breasts bare and her hair _finally_ tousled from its perfect hold, a few locks falling down over her forehead. She somehow makes disarrayment look like art. Annie thinks that's probably what she's always seen in Z.

She sits up and reaches out, catching her fingers in Z's waistband and pulling her in close enough that she can undo the button and zipper of her fly and let the trousers slide down off her hips. If she expects to find anything underneath, it's either La Perla or something four in a pack from a WalMart on the road, not the boys' boxer-briefs Z's wearing, the waistband thick and rough under Annie's fingertips as she guides it down out of the way.

She traces her lips over the mark the elastic left on Z's waist, then downward to the neatly trimmed line of hair, pausing to breathe against her enough to stir the soft strands. Z makes a soft, choked noise, and Annie smiles, glancing up at her for a moment.

"Yes?" she asks, prompting and requesting at once, and Z rolls her eyes, breaking out in a laugh as bright as glass, her hands coming down to smooth Annie's hair off her face.

"Yes," she says, holding Annie's hair back as Annie licks her skin, learning how she tastes. Her forehead's pressed to Z's stomach, and she can feel the muscles quiver as she goes along. Z's fingers tense in her hair, pulling a little but not too much, and Annie steadies herself with her hands on Z's waist, tracing little circles over her hipbones.

In the morning, when they go out, Annie wears the white button-down shirt, with only the two most critical buttons done so it falls loosely around her like a cape. She has a black skirt, ruffled and flouncy and well above the knee, with a low enough waist that the top two inches of the boxer-briefs stand out clearly, a statement.

They run the last few yards to catch their airport shuttle. Annie squeezes Z's hand and laughs as they tumble into the van, Z whispering into her ear, "They look better on you."  



End file.
